I hate it when that happens, Vol. MMMCCCVII

Once again, I lost my keys. It was my spare set, so I didn't exactly have to freak out or anything. Nevertheless, it is only a matter of time before I lose my main set, too, and then things could get dicey, like I couldn't go anywhere and I know from past experience that it costs over $150 to get Ford to make me a new remote thingy. Now, I kind of looked for them, off and on, for the last two weeks, shuffling through the magazines heaped on the coffee table, pushing aside all the junk on my desk, toeing through the pile of books by the side of the bed. Yesterday, I got serious. I cleaned up the aforementioned messes. No keys. I went through the closet looking in jacket pockets (where did all those jackets come from anyway?). While I was at it, I organized the closet a little. I swept under the bed and behind the dresser. As a last resort, I went through my jean drawer, rifling the pockets, and, on the bottom-most layer, found them in my little jean peddlepushers that I haven't worn forever. Quite a relief. And what a blessing. The house was clean, too.

Adieu, Luciano...

I don't take a newspaper, and since I am not working at home any more, I don't even get sound bites on the radio And my blips on my home screen are always so depressing, kids blowing themselves up and stuff, I kind of don't look at them, either. So I was shocked to see that my idol, Luciano Pavarotti, died this week. I use the work "idol" kind of loosely here. His music saw me through a painful time in my life, led me back to the light, which is what his first name means, you know. He was really a bombastic ass, and when he divorced his wife, I was pretty much over him. Still, his gift was prodigious. I hope he remembered that it was only a gift, as now HP has silenced it forever, reclaimed it. I do have many recordings, including the entire score of Turandot, to remember this man by. And I have now subscribed to the NY Times online, and will be getting daily headlines, movie and book reviews. Not going to be left out of the loop any more.

It's not easy being me, Vol. MCCXXXIV

Truly, I am blessed. Though I am 63, I don't look it. And most of the time, I don't feel it, either. This is despite the need for a whole host of products that I wasn't aquainted with just a few months ago. Like under-eye depuffer. It seems that I sleep on my side a lot, with my down pillow all scrunched up under my cheek, causing me to wake up with these little pouches under my eyes. I tried these little pod thingies, squeeze dab and massage. No soap. Next I tried to train myself to sleep on my back. Yeah, that'll happen. Now I am trying a new lotion, and it seems to be helping, though my basset hound look is still with me until at least noon every day. I just try to stay behind my shades a lot. Ginko biloba is on my list, because I want to keep those neural pathways firing. And I still take magnesium, to help me absorb my calcium. I buy huge bags of tooth pick thingies that help me floss behind those pesky molars in back. And soy, for hot flashes, and Estrin D, to perk up my flagging metabolism. Today, my back hurts. Today, I feel my age, it is aching bone deep. Pardon me while I snivel.

Weather woes...

We are having a schizophrenic September, hot as Hades one day, gray and damp the next. Sad, because we are a monoculture here, and the vineyards will get bunchrot at worst, and harvest will be in November, at best. Serves them right for putting all their grapes in one basket, if you ask me. Of course, I no longer imbibe, so what do I care, anyway. But gray days mean sitting out at the tables at the food court, shivering while scarfing down a 1/3 lb. hamburger and a mountain of fries because I always believe I need more fuel when it gets cold. In fact, I had soup tonight, a lovely black bean soup from Trader Joe's, with a nice salad, to make up for that humungous burger. Then, later on, as I fished around in the cupboard for some tea, I came upon this innocent little envelope of Betty Crocker muffin mix, lemon poppyseed. Gosh, where did that come from? Probably one of my Sunday sojourns at Target, where they now have a whole bunch of groceries, and I see things I normally avoid at Safeway. So, I made them, with some cranberries thrown in for good measure, then broke my eating plan by scarfing one of them down while it was still hot, with (ohmygod) BUTTER! Like, I never do that. Well, never is way too long a time, n'est-ce pas? And it is really cold tonight, I am even thinking I should turn on the heat.

Welcome to the Nacirema tribe...

Our 2nd assignment in sociology was to read this article called Body Rituals Among the Nacirema then write a paper on another of this tribes practices. Well, I read it, and these people were literally obsessed with their bodies! But how was I to write about any other aspect of their lives? I procrastinated. This is my usual solution when I don't know what to do. I even asked the teacher, who told me "You are an expert on these people." Huh? So, I decided, at the eleventh hour, when I could no longer put it off, to read the article again and extrapolate as much information as I could. I had decided to write about dietary practices, so I first needed to learn the climate of their location so I could determine what crops they could grow, what prey they would hunt, etc. And, gee, their location sure sounded familiar. Like, it was my location, too! And then I looked at the name of the tribe, and I got it. Nacirema is American, backwards. Another trip through the article had me howling. I decided to write about mating habits, in the same tongue in cheek anthrospeak as the article. It nearly wrote itself. Now I know that sociologists have a definite sense of humor, which I bet they really need when they are looking through their magnifying glass at our culture. We could all take a page out of their book, and laugh at ourselves a whole hell of a lot more. I know I am.

The very non-erotic naked person I saw today...

We began the drawing phase of our figure drawing class today. Dear Kevin had to regale us with an anatomy lesson first, and some guidance on proportions which were actually quite useful, and then we got down to the nitty-gritty. Don, our model, had stood in his Bermudas for Kevin's talk, then shed every little thing and stood fully frontal for his first pose. I was so busy trying to get everything the right size (yes, everything, even that), I forgot to notice that he was naked. We drew three different poses, from different angles. I took a look at all the other efforts and had to laugh at how many overstated those pesky genitals that were just hanging out all over the place. In relation to the figure, they weren't particulary large, in my estimation, and actually, as genitalia go, quite nice. I got some pretty good stuff down on paper, if I say so myself. I have a way to go, but I am not starting from the very bottom of the pack, that's for sure. It's a God thing, this talent for drawing. What a gift it is. And what a gift this model was, too. Nice body, sweet smile.

What a zoo!

I had forgotten what the first days of school were like. I arrived early and still had a hassle parking. Heck, even getting into the garage was a challenge. The left turn lane was two blocks long, and I wound up on the 3rd floor, the highest I have ever had to go to park so far, so the garage is not a well-kept secret anymore. Because the cafeteria is closed for remodel, there are 6 food courts around campus, all of the al fresco, so I hope they finish that job before it rains. It was a delight, though, after drawing class, to linger over a swell chicken salad beneath the trees, just sitting on the wall of the planter. Two of my friends found me there. But I am ahead of myself. An old buddy, Kayla, is in my drawing class. She is very, very cute, bubbly, blond, and sweet. I think this class is going to be a hoot, because Kevin (our teacher) promises we will be drawing a lot. This did not happen enough last semester, and will be mostly due to the fact that we have models coming in, and that's what they are there for, to draw. Kevin filled our 3 hour slot with a long exposition on the course, and some slides, too. Then I met up with Travis and Victoria at lunch, after which I headed over to get my new student ID, but the line was so long (and so slooooow), I wound up leaving for my next class, sociology across the street. It looks like a whole bunch of fun. She also let us out early, which was good, because I did not have all the books I needed, occasioning another trip to the bookstore, where they know how to do it. Despite the long, long lines, I was in and out with alacrity. I hit the art supply store on the way home for some supplies, and now have organized my Artbin and packed the portfolio for storage in the locker I got right away before class, and was surprised to be assigned the very same locker I had last year! Now, what are the odds of that! Different combination, though. Well, I memorized my student ID#, nine digits, I can certainly remember five more, right? God, I hope so. One more first day, tomorrow, then I had better be onboard, because as I remember, it takes off pretty fast from there. Happy, happy, joy, joy. I just love being a college student!

Adieu, summertime...

Ah, that was the summer that was. School starts on Monday, so goodbye rushing off to the movies on a whim, especially when it is hella-hot and I just need some cool dark place to be. It has been a summer to remember, movie-wise, topped off with that uncharacteristic and pretty hedonistic trip to the big City for Harry Potter in Imax 3D. I saw my last one last night, just because it is my final weekend of freedom for a while, Death at a Funeral. I am not particularly fond of screwball comedies, unless they star Cary Grant. But I fell in love with Matthew Macfadyen as Mr. Darcy in the new Pride and Prejudice, and wanted to see what he could do as a stodgy, somewhat fluffy author wannabe in a comedy. Surprise, the theater was packed and I was relegated to a seat in the third row, so my neck got a nice stretch, too. It took a while, but in the end, we were all roaring. And my guy did not disappoint. He has a sweet nuance to his demeanor that did not beat us about the head and face, but left this viewer with gratitude for his restraint. Most reviewers like this picture, I found out afterward (I try not to read reviews first, feeling my own opinion is all that matters, anyway). It was a fitting swansong for my summer. Now if I can just get that ##$%&$* lawn mowed.

All will be revealed...

Now I know why I stay away from the mall. I came home yesterday, $140 lighter. Well, the Gap was having this sale, and I got three really swell tops (school clothes, you know) for $50. That's not a bad deal, Gapwise. Then this sweet young thing stopped me and bamboozled me into buying her product. Actually, I was not much of a hard sell after she demonstrated it to me. You see, I have always wanted to look well-groomed. And I always fell short, no matter how carefully I arranged my hair, painted my toenails, pressed my clothes, or made up my face, because my fingernails are always a mess. They are usually all different lengths because they split and tear very easily. The cuticles look like little pieces of rope that have been frayed one too many times. I try, really I do. I file them, I use all kinds of chichi lotions (gifts from my daughter, mostly) several times a day. But I also wash my hands 15 times a day (tired old bladder, also a gift from my daughter), which dries everything up even worse, not to mention turpentine when I clean up after painting. And to add insult to injury, a couple of my nails are now ridged like wide-waled corduroy. Well, back to that sweet young thing at the mall, who took my hand and looked at my nails, ouch. She said, choose one and give it to her. So I gave her a puckered, ridged one. Might as well make this a challenge. She said "Prepare to be amazed." And she took this little cube and buffed it to a brilliant shine! Without polish! So I bought the whole shebang from her, kind of expensive, but well worth it. There is a year's worth of manicures in that box, and it is really easy, does not involve sticky polish that gets all over the cuticle, and other surfaces, too. And the cuticle oil has improved those little suckers, too. And it is strange, but my nails feel harder and denser than they did before, too. She said the buffing massages the nail bed and encourages stronger nails. Well, whoop-de-doo! I cannot stop looking at my nails! This is really exciting for me. Now, if I could just afford that facelift.

The many faces of Boo...

Pardon me while I anthropomorphize my dog, but I have lived with this creature for nigh on to nine years, and I know all his moods and expressions. Boo is a little fluffy black dog with white markings, a mix of something and Tibetan spaniel, though he was billed as a Pekingnese mix by his breeders. That means he has a little squatty snout, not quite all the way flat, with a deep crevice over his tiny nose that requires the assistance of a Q-Tip to clean. Interesting fact about short-nosed dogs - their palate is just as long as a long-nosed dog, and sometimes gets caught in their throats, causing an alarming amount of snorting to ensue. I have been assured that this is not life-threatening, but I am quick to slap Boo on the back to help him dislodge it promptly. He also seems to have a very long (and very pink) tongue. He can lick his eyebrows. Which brings me to his morning face, eyes kind of at half-mast, tongue flicking in and out, in and out. When fully awake, he stands on my belly with his tongue lolling out, his Get-up-dammit expression. Every day, after I make the bed (with Boo on it, of course, it's kind of tricky), I open the blinds and Boo pricks his ears and his eyes get huge, and you just know he has never seen the front yard before, surprise! If I pick up one of his squeaky toys (he only likes the plush ones, which he eagerly disembowels) and throw it, he becomes Boo Roger Ramjet, lays back his ears, gets this crazed look in his eyes, and races around madly, stopping suddenly to reverse direction. When he gets the toy, he is likely to shake the hell out of it, a regular 18 lb killing machine. Boo gets regular doggy massages, where he lays his head back, half closes his eyes, and would purr if he had the equipment. But my favorite Boo look is the one I get when I poke at him in the evening, usually when he is sprawled out on the bed on his back, with all his business hanging out for the world to see, snoozing away. He will flip over and gaze at me over his shoulder with the What-the-hell-can't-you-see-I-am-sleeping look. And I do mean gaze. He will just stare at me until I apologize and promise to leave him be. So don't tell me dogs don't have personalities. Boo is the best dog in the world. When I come home, he rears up on his hind feet, making happy little cries, and does his Give-me-ten welcome, whether I was gone ten minutes or ten hours. Life with Boo is sweet. Messy, sometimes smelly, but sweet.

Me and my pain...

I have emerged from the last little rocky boat of psychic pain, a little unsteady and with a whole bunch of new insight. It wasn't any different than if I had whacked my thumb with a hammer. Man, that hurts! I always feel that it is unbearable in the beginning, but, of course, it isn't. And it only hurts at that level for a few seconds. Then it settles into this kind of continual moaning pain, throbbing with my heartbeat. I apply ice, and maybe some arnica, if I can find it, and persevere until it settles down. Notice that I do not yell at it, or say that I shouldn't be hurting like this, or feel that it is unfair. In the weeks that follow, I forget about the pain, until I bump up against something that triggers it again. That is always a surprise, when that happens. And it always does. Happen, I mean. That is the stage I am in at this moment. A stray thought will start the pain up again. It is only a shadow of the original, though. The only thing different from the hammer blow and this process is that I am not sure of the instrument of my torture. I have needed to do some sleuthing in the messy mire of my subconcious mind to find the source. It is old, essential pain this time, something hard-wired into my screwy psyche. Whatever, I am still glad to be me, glad that I have friends who will listen to me piss and moan, glad that I have a mind that can do the detective work, and a heart that can still break, and be patched up, yet again.

Blame it on Harry...

So, long time, no write. What can I say? Harry arrived a week ago, and I spent most of my time either reading it, or thinking about reading it. Actually, I read very slowly, knowing that finishing would be a time of withdrawal. This book did an amazing job of tying together all the threads that were dangling out there, and funnily enough, actually provided a wondrous sense of closure. I had to laugh at Time Magazine, who stated that the thing that was killed in the Harry Potter novels was God. The Almighty was substituted by that piddly human emotion, love. Like what is God if not love? Really, people, get a grip! There are obvious Christian symbols in this series if one wants to see them. Like Voldemort's sidekick is a snake. Let's see, who else used that symbol? And Harry always questions his motives before acting, not unlike that other guy. And the end of the last novel, well, you read it and see the striking Easter Sunday correlation. It was all about innocence and evil, guys! Sort of like the Bible.

Oh, give me a break...

The new issue of Time features a comprehensive article on addiction and brain activity, like someone will make a breakthrough and invent a pill to cure alcoholism, drug addiction, compulsive gambling, etc., etc., etc. Every once in a while, one of our fellowship will wistfully wish for such a pill, and the rest of us at the meeting will kind of titter behind our hands. What Bill Wilson so wisely understood (and he was a towering intellect, just read his book) was that alcholics have much more than a drinking problem. In fact, the drinking is just a symptom of a much more far-reaching, pervasive disease, one I think of as self-loathing. So he and the first 100 recovering drunks came up with the 12 steps, clear directions that gave actions that could lead to a transformation by cleaning up our act. Only by doing the necessary housecleaning and changing our victim mentality could we accomplish long-term abstinence. If, indeed, there were such a pill, as soon as the addict felt better, she would inevitably stop taking it, the same way the mentally ill do, because she would begin to believe she was cured. Doesn't make sense to sane people, but alcoholics are not particularly sane. Yes, that includes little old moi. At least I know where I am nuts. Now, that's progress!

And then there was IMax...

You know, when I was a kid, most movies were still black and white. Color movies were very rare indeed. Television had not been invented yet, and we listened to soap operas and mystery shows on the radio (I remember doing that on the way home one night with the kids in the car, early in the 1980's, a revival spooky ghost story, and the kids were terrified - says something about leaving stuff to the imagination, huh). So I am still pretty amazed by how far we have come in our technology in my 63 years here on the planet. Today, I saw the Harry Potter movie on a screen 80 by 100 feet, with multitudes of speakers, in a theater that seated 600 thrilled people, with the last 20 minutes in 3D. I was just mesmerized. Okay, maybe it was not high art. But man, it was exciting. Even my oh so sophisticated kid got all stirred up when she saw they were handing out those glasses. And gosh, poor Harry, losing Sirius and still stuck going home to those horrid Dursleys. Saturday, the new book arrives. Oh, man, that's heaven, a movie and a book all in the same earthly week!

Long time no write...

Well, that just goes to show ya'. The more time I have to get things done, the less that happens. Let's see. I survived my little pity party, now am feeling pretty healed. Boo got his annual bath, always an event in this house. It was hella-hot, so I plunked my little guy in half a tub full of warm water, and didn't let the dearth of dog shampoo deter me. He got scrubbed with Dove shampoo, and now smells just like me. I was worried that he was getting fat till after this event. Apparently, his girth was all hair, and it apparently was all being held together with dirt, because as soon as I dried him off, most of it fell out. All over the house. He is now sleek and soft and ever so trim. During my little spate of unhappiness, I went to the movies. A lot. After Shrek, I saw Ratatouille (funny, sweet, totally wonderful) and the new Die Hard movie (funny, smart, totally gratifying gratuitous violence) and most recently, Golden Door. Now, there's a film that shows what film can do. It illuminated a part of history that is both ignominious and fascinating, the immigration system at Ellis Island. We got to follow this simple Italian family from their rocky (really ROCKY) roots to their successful entry into the States, followed by this Englishwoman groupie. It took a half hour into the movie to decide that I liked it, mostly because it was so artsy and very subtle, really different from our American fare. And we sat in the last row, where I was behind this guy with a big round head that blotted out a lot of the subtitles. Then it got so amazing that I totally forgot that guy. Gee, I love it when that happens! And tomorrow, oh boy! Kiddo and I are headed for the Metreon to see Harry Potter at the IMax 3D theatre! Fandango.com!

And now for something completely different...

That will sound familiar to all you Monte Python fans out there. Life is, after all, mostly ludicrous, right? Right. Lately, as you may have read, I am experiencing speedbumps on my highway of life, and feeling kind of low. So I had a choice. I could dig out the chips and soda, impress a mold of my butt on the couch and watch old episodes of Dog , the Bounty Hunter, or Bridezillas. Or, I could take my butt out to meetings and church and around the neighborhood, dog in tow. That is called getting into action. I already do lots of service for others. Time to reel it in and take care of number one. And the strangest things happen when I set foot on this path. Electrical appliances often die on me. This time it is my blow dryer, the one I bought to replace the one that died during my last spiritual crisis. Poor thing is just sputtering. And yesterday, the panic button went off in my car, you know, honk, honk, honk. Admittedly, the keys were in my pocket, but I was in the back of the house, and the car was in the driveway out front. And as if that wasn't enough annoyance, my kitchen sink is all backed up. I hate it when that happens. So I am sitting here, listening to the tapes a friend made of the music of our youth (he's even older than I am, so some songs are a little obscure even to me), awaiting the plumber. Yes, I did the Liquid Drano thing. Twice. Stubborn clog just laughed at me. And I must be getting better, because I laugh every so often, too. Mostly at myself. After all, if I learn to laugh at myself, I will never be without a source of amusement.

Healing happens...

I am on the mend from my little dip into the pool of icky sticky ooey gooey slimy self-centered fear. It will come up from time to time, and cause all kinds of havoc. Getting out of it is definitely a purification process, and this always impels me into action, making the changes needed to, well, change. I am going to different meetings, actually went to church this Sunday, and am reading The Secret, which I already knew and just needed to be reminded of. This morning, I made myself pancakes with (sugar-free) strawberry jam, sliced almonds, a banana and Cool Whip, one addiction I am never recovering from. Really a treat. Now I am dressed in my little shorts and tank top, suitable for a trip down to Barnes and Noble in search of a book by John Tarrant, who spoke at my little church sojourn, a Zen teacher, very interesting man from Tazmania, and who thought there were still people coming from Tazmania? Anyway, his book is about the value of suffering. I need that at the moment.

The awful truth...

Here's what happened. Two and half years ago, I left a long-term relationship. Except he never went away. We separated, forty miles apart, but he continued to call, I saw him at least once a week at our mutual meeting, and we did some activities together, not dates, just activities. And last Thursday, he told me he is seeing someone. So I fell apart. Well, I never did when I moved here, and this is my usual way of dealing with the end of relationships, melting into a rather unattractive puddle until I get sick of myself, and get it together again. I was way overdue. During my last crying jag, I realized that this is a truly safe time to fall apart, when he is not available and I am not tempted to soothe myself with him. That would be a very, very, very bad idea. I have be reading old journals of our time together, and I was not a happy camper most of the time. This man has a whole menu of behaviors that are at best difficult to live with. There is the non-stop monologue of his most miniscule activities. There is the whining about his finanacial situation. There is his financial situation, which is dicey, all the time. And there were some really stinky personal habits, too. Okay, he was sexy. And he is an amazing artist, and he taught me to paint, and we had some really wondrous moments, too. Letting go is painful, and oh, so necessary. It also happens to be ten years to the day since we met, and fell in love. I like to fall in love in the summer, I find. Oh, well.

Reality bites.

As much as I hate to admit it, I have put on a few pounds. Don't you hate it when that happens? I can still get into most of my wardrobe, and that's good. However, in certain things, I do somewhat resemble an Italian sausage. And I have this uncomfortable feeling when propped up in bed reading, like there is this shelf that didn't used to be there, right below my boobs. So, we have once again bitten the bullet and committed to an eating plan. Not a diet, that's too deprivation sounding. Eating plan is better, because it is about eating, after all. Lots of salad, not a hard thing to do when the weather is like today, all toasty warm. And some exercise, fueled by a little over-the-counter diet remedy, formulated for post-menopausal gals like me. I never need the full dose of that stuff. My little system is so very sensitive, one of those capsules keeps me dashing about all day long. I estimate that in 6 weeks I will be all slim and comfy again in my pants. It really is about being comfortable. And continuing to fit into my wardrobe. I refuse to buy fat pants anymore.

And there's more...

Of course. Movies, I mean. I saw this documentary on the making of Star Wars the other night. Man, it was a mess. More time went into the manifestation of the idea than into the movie. George Lucas actually consulted with Joseph Campbell, which may be one major reason that it became such a huge hit. There are archtypical heros and nemeses in this saga that resonate in all of us. Like Spielberg's ET, where we all knew the greatest fear, abandonment. Anyway, it had a minimal budget, there was no special effects department capable of handling their needs, the cast was somewhat amateurish, except those wonderful British actors, Alec Guiness and Peter Cushing, whose presence gave the film great weight in the end. The locations were hellish, the robots kept malfunctioning. In the end, there were marathon filming sessions on many sets at once, and ditto the editting process. Lucas went out on a limb and hired John Williams to give it a symphonic score, and they had to coerce theaters to book it by offering it as a package with The Other Side of Midnight, a mediocre potboiler to say the most. And it just took off. This "kid's movie" created an international phenomenon, so much so that the toy manufacturers were caught off guard and had to offer at Christmas empty boxes with pictures of action figures to be shipped in March. This was a movie I fell in love with, saw several times in the theater, bought on tape as soon as it came out. Actually, don't tell anyone, but we had a pirated tape of it before its release. And I have the soundtrack, too. It is noodling away in the background as I type, kind of synchronous, don't you think?